


Pony

by brittlelimbs



Series: Reylux Drabbles [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Crack, F/M, M/M, Married Couples, simulated oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rey thinks that ‘Kyle Ren’ is kind of a weird name for a stripper, male or otherwise. Complete crack. </p><p>(AKA I wrote a stripper!Kylo Modern AU and I hate myself)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pony

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbnoG2dsUk0) is the song. Yall already know the one.

It shouldn’t be _legal_ to move your hips like that. 

Kyle Ren, Kyle Rey– whatever his name is, this guy looks like absolute, unadulterated sin, and Rey is way, way too drunk for this shit. Her and Hux and Finn and Poe are posted up in this booth, more than halfway gone on floozy happy hour cocktails in this strip club that’s two parts seedy and one part velvet darkness. It’s not Rey’s scene—or any of their scenes, but even Hux had been enjoying himself; laughing, drinking, eating shit food and throwing wadded-up ones at Finn until she thought he was going to leap over the table and strangle him. 

This is all their fault, anyways; Finn and Poe had been scheming this night for weeks. _It’ll be fun!_ Finn had said, elbowing her over their shared coffee break at the office, copy machines bleating in the background. _Pava did it with her spouse, once,_ Poe told her later, peeking into Rey’s cubicle, waggling his eyebrows like he was letting her in on some big secret. _Hux would be down. That guy needs to let off a little steam every once and while, don’t he?_ Ha! Right, okay. Fuck off, Poe.  

But then she’d noticed some things. Things she’d been avoiding for a while, like the tightness in Hux’s eyes when he came home from his nine to five, a scrunched up set to his shoulders that she couldn’t seem to work out. Her own worn-down posture, her doldrums, her tired energy that Hux couldn’t kindle with his biting wit and mouth and hands, the parts of him that she so loved. So maybe this… thing wasn’t such a bad idea. Also: Finn and Poe are two of the most charming, persuasive beings in the universe, blindingly so since their wedding last spring, and to deny them anything would be a superhuman feat. So one thing lead to another, and somehow, they’d all ended up here. Eating too-greasy fries, slowly but surely getting absolutely shitfaced, definitely the rowdiest group at this little rundown operation on a Friday night. The evening had worn on, and then crawled, and then warped in entirely too many directions for Rey to keep track of as she waded deeper and deeper into her drunkenness. A colorful pastiche of strip club mainstays: sequins, skin, tattoos in places that made Rey’s mouth go dry at the sight. It was fun! She was so drunk, and it was fun.

And then, suddenly, after the parade of shimmying girls, there was this guy, swaggering out from under the announcer’s tinny, mic’d up voice:

_And now, for the late night crowd: our best, our baddest…. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Kylo Ren!_

He was mercurial, liquid-hot, molten-burning in the glamorous way that movie stars are but twice as gritty. Rey felt like she hadn’t been so dumb-struck by attraction like this in years, hazy, swaying in her seat. Hadn’t been so speechless since Hux, and even that had taken years. She squeezed her hand, felt the comforting, soft bite of her wedding ring. Right, right. 

Some enthusiastic applause, and then it had just. Begun. Music cued, raven hair pushed back with sweat. Big, perfect body, the kind of ridiculously toned muscle that people only have in, like, magazines. Kyle is  _built_. Shirtless, sheened with sweat (and is that—glitter?) in the stage lights, deep vee of his hips coming down to jeans so tight that Rey would kind of fear for his safety, if only it didn’t make his swell of his junk look so goddamn perfect. His routine started with a lewd chorus of wolf whistles and an obscene roll of his hips, a look on his face like he was seconds from jumping somebody’s bones, and Rey told herself that everything about this was absolutely ridiculous. Pantomiming sex with every line of his body in this hyper-choreographed routine, sliding gracefully around the stage to the heavy-thud beat of some early-aughts R &B pap she’d forgotten the words to, and, oh, it should be laughably bad. 

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t. 

So now, Rey’s drunk, Kyle Ren looks like a fucking _god_ , and honestly, she’s just trying to remember how to blink before her eyeballs dry up from ogling. 

“Oh, _fuck_.”

If Rey’s struggling, then Hux sounds like a wreck. Done for, his voice a needy, barely-there whine over the club’s blaring music, the deep, low thud of the bass. Everything’s gone all drippy-smeared, candy-colored light and musty shadows and Kyle, but Rey’s heart jumps with it, the sound of his desperation.  

She resettles in her seat, sluggishly tearing her eyes from the spectacle on stage to try and figure out what the fuck is up with her husband. The room moves at quarter-speed, slowed in frames like some bad slo-mo movie montage, and oh, right. She remembers, now, more fully: She’s really, really drunk. 

Those Jager bombs. Allllll those Jager bombs. Shit. 

Hux’s jaw is plopped open, mouth red and fat and shining with liquor, shot glass paused halfway between his lips and the sticky tabletop. All rumpled business casual, undone buttons, eyes glazed over and flushed with drunkenness and the heat of something else. Arousal, she realizes, dimly. It’s arousal. This is it,– this part of him they both knew about, but never spoke of, never named. Rey resists the urge to slide a hand between her legs; her husband is so turned on by this stripper, entranced by this mirage of sex and sweat-dark hair, and, honestly, it’s hot as _fuck_.  

Across from them, the Damerons are going at it, gone to the world, too fucking drunk and lost in each other to keep their shit together; Finn’s made progress since the last time she checked three rounds ago, worked his way almost entirely into the too-tight denim of Poe’s lap, fingers fisted in his hair. Poe, for his part, is holding up valiantly, groping at Finn’s ass while they make out like they aren’t, you know, _in the middle of a public venue_. Classic. 

 _Oh, fuck,_ Hux mouths again, and Rey agrees; as a collective whole, their little party of four has officially reached hot mess status. 

And then Kyle loses his pants and it all gets a million times worse. He’s doing something that looks like the sinuous roll of a pushup but—not, and in the next breath, they’re gone, snatched, flung aside. 

She didn’t know they made pants that could do that.

The other patrons cheer, and Rey chokes; surprise, surprise, he’s wearing next to nothing underneath, just this tiny black— _oh god! It’s a thong? Do guys even wear those??_ It’s just a skimpy little thing, straining to cover him, leaving absolutely nothing to Rey’s hyperactive imagination. She can feel her heart beating in her head and in between her legs; she’s never been so confused and turned on and so many things in the same moment as she is now. 

The room is starting to spin. She gropes around, finds Hux’s knee and firmly plants her hand there, trying to find some kind of balance. Hux, husband, poised counterpoint to her stupid, desert-grown impulsiveness, is trembling underneath her fingers, but this feels good, feels right. He finds her eyes, swallows hard; he looks like he does when they’re deep, deep inside the nest of their bed. Vulnerable, needy. 

Hux and Rey have kind of drunkenly fallen in love with this stripper and they’re so screwed. She never thought that T-pain lyrics would be so relevant. 

When Rey nods to him, it’s with drunken clumsiness, but real feeling: _it’s okay. I feel it, too._ Her hand tightens around his thigh. They’re fucked, but least he knows, now, that they’re fucked in solidarity.

When she turns back to the stage, Kyle’s looking at her. Like, _directly_ at her, unmistakably, even through the heady, drunken fog. He looks obscene, sliding his hands down his body, thrusting lustily with the baseline, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. All of that doubled-down, wet, hot, focus concentrated on her, and Rey feels like a deer in the headlights. A bug on a pinboard. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. 

Until it is: in one arching, graceful vault, Kyle has leapt off the stage. He’s approaching their table, and Rey vaguely wonders if this is how divine intervention feels. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, smoothly insinuating himself into their collective space, and oh _fuck_ is his voice deep, of course it is, fits the rest of him like a glove. Rey thinks she might squeak in reply, but she’s not sure. He tosses his head at Hux, hips still in time with the beat. 

“He yours?” 

Uh. He’s even more blinding up close, all dark eyes and bitten lips, dropets of sweat beaded on his perfect skin. Beautiful in a real way, an imperfect way. It takes a slow second for her to figure out what he means, and then another to nod. She wonders, absently, if they’ve put eyeliner on him. He glitters in the darkness like some strange, neon god. 

“Can I?”

She has no idea what he’s asking, what precisely he wants with Hux, but she’s finally got a handle on how to nod, so it’s probably just best to default. 

And then all six and a half blisteringly sexy feet of Kyle has squeezed into Hux’s lap and: oh. That’s what he meant. He’s straddling her husbands legs, towards him, sway-backed and sweaty, bare knees digging into the sticky pleather of the booth. Those big hands knit themselves into Hux’s cropped, ginger hair, and then Rey finds herself with a frontrow seat to watching Kyle, by all intents and purposes, air-fuck the shit out of Hux’s slack-jawed mouth. 

His frankly _incredible_ ass dimples on each thrust, Hux looks like he’s about to come in his pants, and finally, without much fanfare, her brain completely shuts down. 

Poe takes this as the time to finally realized that there’s a world outside of his husband, and a lot of _very interesting things_ are happening in it—i.e, his friend is getting the lap dance of the fucking decade from this otherworldly, beautiful thing, and Poe’s lucky enough to watch it. He whoops, ring clacking against the table as he slams his palms into it a few times, jostling the tequila-hazy Finn that’s still sucking hickeys into his neck, oblivious.

“Fuckin’ _get it,_ Hux!” he hollers, and when Kyle gives an especially, slow, scorching grind at the sound of slurred encouragement, Rey can’t help but laugh hysterically. 

This whole damn night has gone completely off the deep end. 

 

Later, when the set has ended and their little crew is trying to get their sloppy selves out the door, thoroughly wrecked by the proceedings, Kyle sidles up. He’s dressed, now, looks a little more of the mortal plane, though Rey would hope that wearing clothes would make him a little less ridiculously attractive; it it doesn’t. At all. She can feel Hux staring at both of them as her jaw works in empty, half-sobered circles, balking at his sheer presence. Wordlessly, he hands Rey a little slip of paper, and his smile is surprisingly sweet, soft. Then, with a glance at Hux that makes her heat up all over again, he turns, disappears into the dark. 

Hux looks at her, wide-eyed, incredulous. _Is that–_

“Yeah,” she mutters, though she can hardly believe it herself. 

Back in the real world, Finn and Poe are muttering sleepily to each other, helping the other bundle up to head out, unaware. Making plans to hail a taxi, get home to their respective apartments. Hangovers all around tomorrow, for sure. _But, honestly,_ Rey grudgingly admits, _it’s worth it_. She glances down, looking at the number scrawled on the slip, the back of some fast-food receipt. And then, beneath it:  

“Oh!” she laughs. 

“Hm?” Hux hums, trying, and failing, to smoothly shrug on his jacket.  

“It’s Kyl- _o_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this trash heap is always open to comments !
> 
> floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com


End file.
